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COPYRIGHT DEPOSnV 



SONGS OF 
CLOUD AND STAR 

EDWARD FRANCIS BURNS 



5^ 



BOSTON 

THE BALL PUBLISHING COMPANY 

1909 



n 



LIBRARY of CONGRESS 
Two Copies Received 

JAN 14 1909 

Copyri^nt Entry 
I6LASS a^ XXc, No. 



Copyright, 1909 
By The Ball Publishing Company 






^0 iWp jf after 
MICHAEL BURNS 

CATHERINE BURNS 



CONTENTS 



PAGE. 

A Wood Violet i 

The Firefly 3 

The Poet of Nature's Love-Song 8 

A Book and a Brook lo 

Two Men 12 

The Tea-Rose 16 

Blossoms 19 

The Cloud and the Star 20 

To Ella 21 

King Coal 23 

The Chimney Flag 26 

A Declaration of Faith 28 

Just a Singer 30 

The Lilacs 33 

Incarnation 35 

A Man Who Thinks of Others 36 

BALLADS AND LEGENDS 

Anna Black 41 

The Empty Hand -47 

Nantucket's Pipe 53 

PEACE AND WAR 

Only a Year ago 59 

Among the Soldiers' Graves .62 

For Memorial Day 65 

BOOKS AND MEN 

Books and Men 69 

Shelley - 73 

Lincoln Learning Arithmetic 78 

The Dead Leader 82 

John Boyle O'Reilly 85 

The Savior of Dreyfus 87 



CONTENTS 
BALLADS OF BOYHOOD 

PAGE. 

Amos Lee 91 

The Boys of Dewdale 94 

Days Gone by . 100 

The Big, Old-fashioned Cent 103 

FELLOWSHIP SONGS 

Fellowship 109 

A. A. F 113 

The Globe Man 114 

C. H. T., JR 118 

A Song for Christmas 120 

A MAN TO A WOMAN 

A Man to a Woman 125 

Je T'Aime 127 

To — 129 

The Girl Who Waits on Me 132 

The Best Loved 134 

The Two Ships . 13S 

COLLEGE VERSES AND OTHER VERSES 

Our Mother's House 141 

The Closed Book . 144 

The Christmas Tree 146 

A Life Story 149 

I Love 152 

A Birthday . . . I53 

The Old Conductor and the New 154 

A Piece of Lace Made by Helen 157 

The Golden Rose 158 

Nova Atalanta Vindex . 161 

Boston College 165 



SONGS OF CLOUD AND STAR 



A WOOD VIOLET 

T T TEARIED was I seeking good, 

BafHed were my heart's researches, 
When I found you in the wood, 
Hidden by the speckled birches. 

Fragile flower and all alone, 

I could then have culled and kissed you; 
Sister flowers would ne'er have known. 

Wood and world would ne'er have missed you, 

Choice were mine as there I stood, 

Choice to leave you as I met you. 
Or to take you from your wood. 

Lover-like, and then forget you. 



2 A WOOD VIOLET 

Had I plucked you then and tried, 
Thus to hold you, flower affrighted. 

Soon your petals would have died, 
Even by my fondness blighted. 

So I chose the wiser part. 

Chose to leave you where I found you ; 
But you followed in my heart, 

With your wood and world around you. 



THE FIREFLY 

TJNROM the depths of wood and grass, 

I can see you, firefly, pass 
To the red rose and the white, 
By your tiny taper light. 
Wherefore, insect chemist, thus, 
With your bit of phosphorus? 

Once again you pass me by, 
SaiHng to the tree-tops high. 
Like a corner of a star 
Or some gHnting dust you are. 

Now once more among the flowers 

Saturate with thunder showers; 

3 



THE FIREFLY 

Water cannot quench your spark, 

Watchman of the fairies' park. 

Ere that one can say your light 

Vanishes, it gloweth bright. 

Wings you have; I've seen them stir; 

Mortal never heard them whir. 

There you are with others now, 
A tiara on the brow 
Of yonder hill ; then all draw near 
Till the sumach tops appear 
Like a lighted chandelier. 

Tiny toiler, not incessant 

Is thy labor phosphorescent; 

I have watched you and have reckoned 

That you rest just once a second; 

Then without a strike you're quick 

To re-Iight your little wick. 



a 



THE FIREFLY 

Silent worker, no complaint 
Ever make you of restraint; 
Comes no sad or joyous note 
From your dainty golden throat. 
Yet what profit in the field, 
Firefly, does thy labor yield ? 

Under the equator's line 
Lives a relative of thine 
By the nightly phosphor shine 
Of whose little lantern glint, 
Man can read the finest print* 

Could you answer, you would say, 
Tell me what is profit, pray. 
Of all labor, night or day? 
Why not ask the polar star 
What his yearly profits are? 



THE FIREFLY 

Or its income of the sun? 

Or the moon's since Ajalon? 

O, you egotistic man 

And utiHtarian, 

You must be a neophyte 

Not to know the use of light 

Always has been, soon and late, 

Beauty to disseminate. 

Incidental are the crops 

Of the waving, sun-kissed tops 

Where you find for daily need 

Cloth to cover, grain to feed. 

To the Harvester of stars 

In the fields that have no bars, 

Saturn's rings are but a glint 

Of an ingot in a mint ; 

Jupiter a phosphor speck 



THE FIREFLY 

On the universe's deck; 

Galaxies but bits of lace 

On the endless looms of Space! 

What the aim? Ah, Man, confess 

That you know not. Loveliness 

Is the crop which tilling yields 

In those boundless, star-sown fields. 

So to gazers from yon spheres 

All our laboring appears 

Not for housing nor for food, 

Not for any fleeting good. 

Not for dollars, not for cents, — 

No mere market recompense; 

But for Beauty unconfined — 

Food and raiment of the mind/' 



THE POET OF NATURE'S LOVE SONG 

A I iHE South Wind with a message 

To my casement came to-day, — 
Thou art coming, O my Summer, O my Love! 
And my heart bounds out of doors 

To meet thee on the way, — 
Thou art coming, O my Summer, O my Love ! 

The South Wind with his fingers 

Pushed the draperies apart, — 
Thou art coming, O my Summer, O my Love! 
And he whispered in my ear 

A message for my heart, — 

Thou art coming, O my Summer, O my Love ! 

8 



THE POET OF NATURE'S LOVE SONG 

The dormant hopes of Winter 

Have reblossomed with desire, — 
Thou art coming, O my Summer, O my Love! 
And the long-hushed aisles of faith 

Resound as with a choir, 
Thou art coming, O my Summer, O my Love ! 

Yes, coming, thou art coming, 

With the lilacs and the May, — 
Thou art coming, O my Summer, O my Love ! 
And my heart bounds out of doors 

To meet thee on the way, — 
Thou art coming, O my Summer, O my Love ! 



A BOOK AND A BROOK 

Written on a Fly-Leaf of Francis Thompson's 
'' New Poems " 

/"^NE day in winter, two dear friends beside, 
I walked in columned corridors of trees, 
Upon the carpet laid by autumn's breeze, 
When suddenly a little brook I wspied. 
In elfin glee, it seemed to run and hide 
In selvages of mint, as if to tease 
To vain pursuit; just like a child that flees 
And leaves for us its laughter as a guide. 

Within this book are many rills of song, 

The cadent currents of a poet's pen. 

lO , 



A BOOK AND A BROOK II 

Calm first, but soon precipitously strong, 

They leap, cascade-like, through a fronded glen 

Of words ; then, flinging music, dash along, 
To show they scorn the laggard steps of men. 



TWO MEN 



T TE loved his child, and he loved his wife; 

He was fair to the men he hired for pay; 
And he took a serious view of life — 
'Twas a field for work and not for play. 

He gave to charities near or far, 

In the name of the Christ who felt the rod ; 
But he always worshiped the social bar ; 

And yet they said he believed in God, 

He kept his pew from the fisher-folk 

And the dust, by the aid of silks, quite free; 

12 



TWO MEN 13 

But he loved the words that the Master spoke 
To the men with nets by GaHlee. 

The Golden Rule and St. James he knew, 

Nor could driest of sermons make him nod; 

But his heart was Pharaoh's against a Jew; 
And yet they said he believed in God. 

He saw some beauty in wave and flower 

But afraid of his mind, would stay my hand, 

Lest a move by me might offend the Power 
That can fillip spheres like grains of sand. 

He never turned from the narrow track 

Which has end like the rest — the graveyard sod ; 

But would shun a man if his skin was black ; 
And yet they said he believed in God. 



14 TWO MEN 

II 

His look was shy and he kept apart 

From the crowds that he saw along life's way; 
But he knew the names of the birds by heart, 

And he walked alone in woods to pray. 

In piney minsters he heard a choir, 
And its beauty his soul could not resist ; 

And his altar glow was the sunburst fire; 
And yet they called him an atheist. 

His missal, butterflies' rubric wings 
By the hand of the Perfect One illumed; 

And his prophecies were the mist-moon rings, 
And his saint a wood-bird scarlet-plumed. 

He fed the squirrels and winter birds; 
And his purse never held with miser fist ; 



TWO MEN 15 

And he loved the music of children's words ; 
And yet they called him an atheist. 

He knew no caste and was color-blind 
When he shyly beheld a human face ; 

And he welcomed light from the humblest mind, 
And he shared joy's throne in humblest place. 

He showed no tremor at wind or wave, 

Nor a shudder when Death his eyelids kissed ; 

And with tranquil spirit he faced the grave ; 
And yet they called him an atheist. 



THE TEA-ROSE 

T TALF- WITHERED, it is lying there, 

The tea-rose fallen from her hair 
As swept she through the gilded room 
Ablaze with light and floral bloom. 

She saw him not. He seized the flower, 
And, heedless of the place and hour, 
Devoutly kissed the petal tips 
As if they were her very lips. 

For he for many years was her 

Devoted slave and worshiper; 

And for her image set apart 

A shrine within his boyish heart. 

i6 



THE TEA-ROSE l^ 

Home from the ball and its excess 
Of tinsel show and gaudiness, 
His poor heart from its abject state, 
Resolved he to emancipate ; 

He plucked the tea-rose from his breast, 
The tea-rose that his lips had pressed 
With fervent piety before, 
And flung it bruised upon the floor. 

O futile hope to heal the pain 

Made sharper by her dear disdain ! 

The man who loves a woman knows 

He bruised his heart who bruised the rose ! 

Remorsefully the rose he took 
For burial within a book — 
The Holy Book between whose leaves 
The garnered ages lie in sheaves. 



l8 THE TEA-ROSE 

Now, poor, dead rose ! thy leaves are pent 

Within a fitting monument. 

Thy faded petals lie upon 

The matchless Song of Solomon ! 

And while his heart some rest may take 
In such poor rhymes as he can make, 
The petals which he bruised repose 
In pomp beside fair Sharon's rose ! 



BLOSSOMS 

T DID not ask the laggard Spring 

To give the trees a fragrant glow; 
I let the willing Winter bring 

His jeweled buds of frost and snow. 

For those who ask for bread alone, 
Impatient for the flower and fruit, 

The sweetest bread is turned to stone, 
And canker gnaws the deepest root. 

But they who in the spirit dwell, 

Uncircumscribed by place or time. 

Can see the desert bloom a dell, 

Can gather fruit in any clime. 

19 



THE CLOUD AND THE STAR 

\ SAD cloud sailed for a star one night, 

O star! star! star! 
Long had the lone cloud sighed for the light, 

Afar ! far ! far ! 
So near he drew to the loved star's flame, 

So near ! near ! near ! 
That he felt her heart, and the cloud became 

A tear ! tear ! tear ! 
A tear of joy on her cheek to lie 

O there ! there ! there ! 
Highest of thrones in all the sky, 

For'er ! e'er ! e'er ! 

Who was the star, and the lone cloud, who, 

That met in the poet's sky? 
Dear love ! the shining star was you, 

And the longing cloud was I. 

20 



TO ELLA 

With a Copy of Tennyson's '' Tiresias and Other 

Poems/' 

TNQUISITIVE Tiresias, who saw 
Minerva in an olive-arbored pool, 
Was stricken blind, to vindicate the law 

By Saturn made to teach the Theban fool. 

Warned by his fate, I seek not nymph or sprite, 
Or Pallas come full-armed from Jove's own 
brain ; 

Content a mortal should mine eyes delight. 
Content a mortal should allay my pain. 

Poor, blind Tiresias, couldst thou have met 
A mortal met by me in godless days, 

21 



22 TO ELLA 

Thy questing soul, one glimpse of her to get, 

Had burst to light through all the darkened 
maze! 

Dear wife, when first I touched thy garment's hem, 
Blurred was the world before my misted eyes ; 

But when I felt your sweetest kiss on them, 
I saw the sunlit hills of Paradise ! 



KING COAL 

T AM the king of strife and calm — 

Now a whistle and now a moan — 
I have seized the scepter and torn the palm 

From the Wind on his bauble throne. 
My pipe in his face I boldly puff 

Till his rage my soul inspires, 
And I draw him down, and his cries I drown 

In the glee of a billion fires ! 

O, I am king of the land and sea, 

King of the field and foam, 

King of the mountain, vale and lea, 

King of the hearth and home ! 
23 



24 KING COAL 

Heir of the lordly limbs and leaves — 

Now a whistle and now a moan — 
And my sires up-garnered in mammoth sheaves, 

On the floors of the world were strown. 
Yet up through the starless roofs I come 

And the sentry breezes quail, 
And the furnace-glow is the flag I throw 

In the teeth of the howling gale ! 

O, I am king of the land and sea, 

King of the field and foam, 
King of the mountain, vale and lea, 

King of the hearth and home! 

Tears for the straining sail and sheet — 
Now a whistle and now a moan — 

As the waves ride over the fated fleet 
At the whim of the wild Wind blown. 



KING COAL 25 

But cheers for the million-muscled oars 

That I make from drops of rain ; 
For as Coal I am king-, and the song I sing 

Is a dirge to the fleet of Spain ! 

O, I am king of the land and sea, 

King of the field and foam, 
King of the mountain, vale and lea, 

King of the hearth and home ! 



THE CHIMNEY FLAG 

TT^ROM boat and ship, 
In surge and slip, 

From cot and from mortared crag. 
From fighting line 
In mill and mine, 

All up for the chimney flag! 

Banner of wedded dust and dew, 
Color of cloud and cream. 

Fluttering folds of nimbus hue, 
Banner of smoke and steam ! 



26 



THE CHIMNEY FLAG 2/ 

With board heaped high, 
We dare defy 

Old Want and her pirate rag, 
As we give our thanks 
To the shirtsleeve ranks 

That fight for the chimney flag ! 

Banner of hearth and child and wife, 
Foe of the snob and drone, 

Banner of bread and warmth and life, 
Flag of the red-blood zone ! 



A DECLARATION OF FAITH 

TF life, after all, is a lottery fair, 

Where some must draw blanks while others 
draw prizes, 
What good is our worry or hurry or care. 
Whenever the shadow of trouble arises? 

Worry has killed, but never has cured. 

Care brings the crows'-feet, but never the bird- 
song; 
And pain is less sharp if it's wisely endured. 

And even a wail may be turned to a word-song. 

If life is a voyage according to chart, 

Between a cold pole and a torrid equator, 

28 



A DECLARATION OF FAITH 29 

My Captain, I know, will not harden his heart. 
And leave me marooned on a berg or a crater. 

Then hurry and worry and scurry who will, 

The grave-flower to win at the end of life's high- 
way; 

True beauty I'll find in the grass by my sill, 
And joy in the bramble I meet in the by-way. 



JUST A SINGER 

T UST a singer, not a seer, 

Nor a sage with mystic scroll, 
Nor a saint with daring guesses 
At the riddle of the soul ; 
But a modest word-musician. 

With his hand upon the keys 
That emancipate the voices 
Of the river and the trees. 

And we cheer him and revere him, 

And forget the poet's art, 

In the word-song, like bird-song, 

That rises from his heart. 
30 



JUST A SINGER 3^ 

Not a fiction, nor a fable 

Do the Grecian poets tell 
Of their Orpheus, who was followed 

By the summit and the dell ; 
For we know a dear magician, 

With dominion over words. 
Who in Sorrow's bleakest winter 

Brings the blossoms and the birds. 

And we laud him and applaud him, 
And forget the poet's art. 

In the word-song, like bird-song, 
That rises from his heart. 

There's another, stranger story. 

That the wise to-day deride. 
Of how Orpheus played in Hades, 

And was given back his bride. 



32 JUST A SINGER 

Yet Fve heard a human singer 

Of the simple songs of trCith 
Who can give us back the sunshine 

Of the buried days of youth. 

And we cheer him and revere him, 
And forget the poet's art, 

In the word-song, like bird-song. 
That rises from his heart. 



THE LILACS 

T ILACS nodding- o'er the way 
•"^""^ Beckon me from books; 
City lilacs all the day 

Point to inland brooks. 

Lilacs, modestly sedate 

^Mid the city's roar, 
Make the Public Garden gate 

Mother's cottage door. 

Lilacs waving fragrant tops 

Scent the city marts ; 

Men are listless in the shops, 

Maying are their hearts. 
33 



34 THE LILACS 

Lilacs plucked by loving hands 
Bring the sick to-day 

Dreams of other lilac lands 
And another May. 



INCARNATION 

T LOOKED for God in great and small; 

I searched for Him in street and wild ; 
I sought Him in the starry wall ; 

Yet found Him in a little child. 



35 



A MAN WHO THINKS OF OTHERS 

J. M. 

T TNLIKE all other men I've known, 

As brave as he is tender — 
His heart is ever swift to own 
Ofifended and offender. 

To culprit scorned of every eye, 
To bruised and broken lowly. 

His sweetest, strongest feelings fly 
With aid and comfort holy. 

And self, to him, a holding seems 

For others' rightful using; 

And he who pardons others, deems 

His own fault past excusing. 
36 



A MAN WHO THINKS OF OTHERS 37 

Yet not a god-like man is he, 
This friend so brave and tender ; 

Nor 'round his brow may poet see 
An aureole of splendor: 

A simple man with whom I work 

In field of flower and stubble, 
Who would not one small duty shirk. 

His share of ease to double. 

But best of all, this human friend, 

This man so brave and tender, 
His light to you and me can lend, 

Unconscious of its splendor. 



BALLADS AND LEGENDS 



ANNA BLACK 

Whose Portrait was in the Old State House at 

Boston, 

I .^OR those who pass the swinging door 

And up the curHng stairs, 
Behind are left the city's roar 
And petty business cares. 

The stairs are sharply coiled and steep, 

As if the builder's wit 
Had little faith that men could keep 

The path of Holy Writ. 

Here once sat legislative power 

And saw the Province grown 

The hardy Massachusetts flower 

By Pilgrim fingers sown, 
41 



42 ANNA BLACK 

Here homespun faith and royal might, 

In council side by side, 
Planned Louisburg's immortal fight 

That nettled Bourbon pride. 

Here Otis' armored words defied 
The parHament and king; 

Here Adams, speech and pen allied, 
Moved Revolution's spring. 

Within this many-windowed room 
Which peace and war adorn, 

Our flag was put upon the loom 

And Freedom's child was born. 

And here the child made such a noise, 
For years King George ne'er slept ; 

And here the noisy toddler's toys 
Are reverently kept. 



ANNA BLACK 43 

And here are Lady Frankland's fan, 

John Hancock's famous quill, 
And blade beloved by boy and man, 

A sword from Bunker Hill. 

And here are Franklin's press and bench — 

Rare Ben who could devise 
A scepter from a king to wTench, 

Or lightning from the skies. 

The drum that beat at Bunker Hill 

Is hanging on the wall, 
And guns that spoke a nation's will 

Are rusting in the hall. 

Yet Memory hovers not above 

War's trophy-laden track. 
But guides me through the lanes of love 

That lead to Anna Black. 



44 ANNA BLACK 

From frame that long has lost its glow, 

I see her looking down, 
The girl who five-score years ago 

Was belle of Boston town. 

Her ringlets by a ribbon caught, 
Half back, half forward go. 

As if those dark-brown tresses thought 
The corsage cut too low. 

Perhaps, with self-confusing haste, 
They saw the coming guest. 

And sought to hide the ruffled waist 
The fickle hours had pressed. 

Or else, with rude and restive greed. 

They grew so overbold. 
That o'er her shoulders they would read 

The song her fingers hold. 



ANNA BLACK 45 

But sweeter song some loved one learned — 

A song that never dies — 
As from the printed page she turned 

The music of her eyes ; 

Earth's oldest tune, yet man or boy 

Will chase the luring strain 
Along the lilied aisle of joy 

Or cypress path of pain. 



How oft those coy eyes answered " No, 

I leave the wise to guess ; 
The scanty records merely show 

That twice she answered '' Yes." 

Away the wind of years has swept 
All other words she spoke ; 

And none the long account has kept 
Of all the hearts she broke. 



>> 



46 ANNA BLACK 

To questionings, those eyes of brown 
Reply, '* I'd have you know 

That I was belle of Boston town 
A hundred years ago." 

So down the stairs, with cautious feet, 

I go, but looking back, 
See stars that light me to the street — 

The eyes of Anna Black. 



THE EMPTY HAND 

A I AHE ice had silvered twig and limb, 

The grass was crusted o'er with snow; 
Above the near horizon's rim 

The moon had bent her silver bow. 

No bells had welcomed in the morn, 

No carols for the coming light, 
No wassail of the wine and corn. 

No Christmas tree that Christmas night. 

Yet even in those prayerful times 

Were some who sighed for English glades, 

Were some who mumbled sinful rhymes 

Of mistletoe and buxom maids. 
47 



48 THE EMPTY HAND 

Those wayward folk, those straying sheep, 
So far forgot the care of souls 

That once at Yule they met to keep 
A kind of Christmas at the Knolls. 

Their hostess was an orphan lass, 
But rich in lands and fatted kine, 

Fit toast for any gallant's glass, 
A Pilgrim Portia, I divine. 

Free giver to the young and poor, 
She often longed to hear the bells 

That music make for glen and moor, 
Once heard by her in Devon dells. 



<< 



God bless her eyes ! God bless her hair ! '' 

' Half mumbling, quoth a supple swain. 
Another maid so good and fair," 

He sighed, " hath never crossed the main." 



THE EMPTY HAND 49 

To all she gave her Christmas cake 
And many a juicy Christmas tart 

(We call them pies) of English make, 
But unto one she gave her heart. 

Rich puddings and sweet jelly rolls 
She served (so gossips told the tale) 

With turkeys raised upon the Knolls 
And pewter mugs of English ale. 

Rare trinkets from her native land 

She gave, and gifts her hands had made. 
" God bless her heart ! God bless her hand ! '' 
The blushing swain half thought, half prayed. 

'Twas then he heard her call his name. 

^^ Now what on him will she bestow ? " 
The whisper went from dame to dame ; 

" Some mittens for his hands, I trow.'' 



50 THE EMPTY HAND 

" God bless her for a smile," he thought, 

" By it would life be blessed or banned." 
She did not give the smile he sought ; 
She gave, instead, her empty hand. 

His blushes took a deeper red, 

(The rose had wilted from her cheek) 

The swain, embarrassed, hung his head ; 
The gossips were the first to speak. 

" He hath his blushes for his thrift," 
They giggled in their nasal glee; 

" She gave him naught for Christmas gift. 
To shame him in this companee." 

'' Hath this hand naught? " the lady said, 
Not to the gossips, but the swain; 
Whereat he slowly raised his head; 
A light was dawning in his brain. 



THE EMPTY HAND 51 

The maiden's open hand he took. 

His was no kid-glove clasp, I ween. 
With axman's grip the hand he shook; 

For he the maiden's gift had seen. 

Then looking in the maiden's eyes, 
This swain, devoid of courtier's art. 

Exclaimed to all the guests' surprise, 
" Methinks this hand doth give a heart. 

God bless thee for the gift, say I, 

God bless the ship that brought thee o'er ; 

To shield thine heart from pain I'll try, 
A landed lord could do no more." 

The roses to her cheeks returned, 

(The gossips said that she was bold) ; 

To spread the tale these goodies burned. 
And so I tell the tale they told. 



52 THE EMPTY HAND 

But, fact or fiction interlaid 
Within the story I've set down, 

Descendants of the swain and maid 
Are Hving now in Boston town. 

And one of them hath gold in store 
And corner lots of city land ; 

And on his lustrous carriage door 
For coat of arms — an empty hand. 



NANTUCKET'S PIPE 

/^ALD Nantucket was an Indian chief, 

So the chroniclers say, 
And, fond of a smoke, 
Among his own folk 

He whiffed the hours away. 

Nantucket's pipe was a wondrous one, 

So the chroniclers tell ; 
Its bowl was as big 
As the hold of a brig 

And deep as the deepest well. 

One hundred squaws had to fill that pipe, 

So the chroniclers say, 
53 



54 Nantucket's pipe 

And when it was lit 
Nantucket would sit 

And whifif the hours away. 

And as he pufifed and smoked and whififed, 

So the chroniclers write, 
The clouds he blew 
Shut the sun from view 

And hid the stars at night. 

One hundred years Nantucket smoked, 

So the story ran, 
Yet the bowl was as full 
At the last fresh pull. 

As when Nantucket began. 

Before he died, taking his pipe. 
So the chroniclers say, 



Nantucket's pipe 55 



On a pitch-dark night, 
From a mountain height, 
He emptied it into the bay. 

And from the ashes of that pipe, 

So the story goes, 
Scattered that night 
From the mountain height, 

Nantucket island rose. 



PEACE AND WAR 



ONLY A YEAR AGO 

T SAW the colors waving high, 
Only a year ago ; 

I saw the men in blue go by, 

Yet never wondered where or why, 
Only a year ago. 

But now I pause in the crowded street 

Whenever a man in blue I meet, 

For I've lost a friend whose smile was sweet - 
Sweet to me in shade or shine, 
Sweeter to me than song or wine — 
A friend whose heart kept march with mine, 
Only a year ago. 

Beneath the shade of yonder tree. 
Only a year ago, 

59 



6o ONLY A YEAR AGO 

My friend and soldier sat with me, 
And all was peace on land and sea, 

Only a year ago. 
But peace, it seems, is a golden sheath, 
A scabbard that hides the blade beneath, 
And the oak prepares a soldier's wreath — 
Honor, truth and love entwined. 
Beauty and faith and fame combined — 
So short was sight and Hope so kind, 
Only a year ago. 

My friend his dearest friend had lost, 

Only a year ago. 
His heart, I know, was tempest-tossed 
When Death the line of living crossed. 

Only a year ago. 
We spoke of Hope and of Death and Grief, 



ONLY A YEAR AGO 6l 

Of Life as the fragile flower or leaf, 

And of Death who garners the grain in sheaf; — 

Grief the cloud of kindly rain, 

Hope, the lord of tears and pain — 

Our saddest song had a glad refrain. 
Only a year ago. 

Along the lane of leaves we went. 

Only a year ago. 
Above, the listening branches bent 
Their wealth of fruited hue and scent, 

Only a year ago. 
A clasp of hands, no word, no tear, 
A sudden bend in the pathway near. 
And a friend was gone whose smile was dear — 

Dear to me in shade or shine. 

Sweeter to me than song or wine — 

A friend whose heart kept march with mine, 
Only a year ago. 



AMONG THE SOLDIERS' GRAVES 



H 



ERE is the garden of the gods ! 

The perfect cHme 
Where rain nor mist of time. 
Nor suns with scorching breath 
Wither the victor's wreath. 
Here every brow is crowned, 
All temples myrtle-bound. 
Here Right forever reigns, 
Joys triumph over pains, 
Hate from each heart is fled, 
And only Wrong is dead. 



Here is the garden of the gods ! 
Immortal crops 



62 



AMONG THE SOLDIERS* GRAVES 63 

Unfurl their ripened tops ; 
But ne'er to sickle yields 
The harvest of these fields. 
And never blighted sheaves, 
And never fallen leaves 
Make autumn evenings sad ; 
All days and nights are glad. 
Pan's pipe is never still ; 
Even mortals feel its thrill. 

Here is the garden of the gods ! 
The pilgrim goal 
Of every lofty soul 
That scorns to creep 
Through life to endless sleep; 
Of men and boys who died 
And dying glorified 



64 AMONG THE SOLDIERS' GRAVES 

Anew the deathless name, 
American ! and fame 
In language of the May 
The story tells to-day. 

Here is the garden of the gods ! 
Columbia's own! 
For her the seed was sown 
And watered by her tears. 
Through all the bitter years 
The tillers were not few ; 
And as the harvest grew, 
Beside the awful gate 
Where all things mortal wait, 
Columbia stood and said : 
I'll not forget my dead." 



a T'l 



FOR MEMORIAL DAY 

T) RAVE boys whom drum and bugle called afar 
From beds made smooth by many mothers' 
hands, 
Afar to bivouac on the Southland's breast 
Beneath rough blanket cloth — to-day one Mother 
Decks your bed with coverlet of green 
f'lower-woven on the silent looms of May! 



65 



BOOKS AND MEN 



BOOKS AND MEN 

T TERY much like men are books ; 

Some are light and some are weighty; 
Some have fair or brownish looks, 
Some are dark as skins of Hayti. 

Some are merry, some sedate ; 

Some are cautious, some are daring; 
Some are friends in every strait — • 

Pilots of the grieved heart's faring. 

Some are truthful, some are not ; 

Of them all you should be wary; 

For they never change a dot ; 

Lies or truth, they never vary. 
6q 



70 BOOKS AND MEN 

Some are always talking peace, 

Others prate of martial glories ; 

Some extol the art of Greece, 

Some delight in ribald stories. 

Some are full of wails or fears 
For the present or hereafter ; 

Some are filled with jibes or sneers, 
Others full of quips and laughter. 

Much like men in race and creed. 

Temper, passion, taste and morals, 

Praising wine or love or greed, 

Quelling strife or picking quarrels. 

Some are thin and some are stout, 
Some are only half completed, 

Some their little knowledge shout, 
Some are not at all conceited. 



BOOKS AND MEN 71 

Very much like men, 'tis true, 

Some deluded, some devoted, 
Yet I must admit a few 

Sharp distinctions I have noted. 

For whatever their sect or clime. 

Be they grave or be they funny, 

Spout they prose or mumble rhyme, 
Books will never owe you money. 

Nay (experto crede), nay! 

For, if sheriffs grip your collar. 
And, poor chap, you cannot pay. 

Books will help you raise a dollar. 

Further, if in Dutch or Greek, 

Celtic, German, Tuscan, Latin, 
English, French or Basque, they speak. 

Or the smooth Castilian chat in; 



72 BOOKS AND MEN 

Matters not what speech they use, 

Nor how fast their tongues may canter 

Through their fresh or ancient news, 
You can shut them up instanter. 

You can throw them on the floor, 
Or beneath a table heave them. 

Or behind the bookcase door. 

Put them on a shelf and leave them. 

Oh, to put upon the shelf 

All who rhyme or reason trample ! 
And, beginning with myself, 

Might not be a bad example. 



SHELLEY 

QHELLEY lived and Shelley died; 

Such a fate all men attendeth, 
But, it cannot be denied, 

There the marked resemblance endeth. 

Rich man's son, the boy was sent 

Off to Oxford, seat of knowledge ; 

Showed an atheistic bent. 

For it was expelled from college. 

For a boy of eight and ten 

One would think that he was harried 

Quite enough to stagger men ; 

He thought otherwise and married. 
73 



74 SHELLEY 

Lacking funds in coin or scrip, 

Never once he sighed or sorrowed, 

Simply took a wedding trip 

On some money that he borrowed ; 

Said that he would change the world 
By inditing songs and letters ; 

At the church some bolts he hurled, 
Tried to strike at Erin's fetters ; 

Soon he fancied that his wife 

Was not true as wife or mother ; 

Thought he'd end domestic strife 
By eloping with another. 

Do not laugh at that, I pray. 
This is not a comic story ; 

On the contrary, I say, 

'Tis a blot on Shelley's glory. 



SHELLEY 75 

If you doubt the truth of this, 

Read '' Queen Mab's " sweet dedication, 
Shelley's covenant and kiss, 

Pledge and seal and attestation. 

Ah, how fond the verses start ! 

Weeping ? Ah, I see you Ve read it, 
And can feel for Harriet's heart. 

O that he had never said it ! 

For I think that every line 

To her heart new wound was giving. 
When, beneath the Serpentine, 

Fled she from the curse of living. 

Came it not like mocking dirge, 

Mocking all his high endeavor, 

When, beneath the Spezzian surge, 

Shelley's heart was stilled forever? 



76 SHELLEY 

What is Shelley's pledge that I 

Must bring forth my grief and show it, 
Though to hide it I should try ? 

Shelley is my dearest poet ; 

Dearest, though the words he vowed 

Tinge the peerless " Skylark's " gladness, 

While from out his perfect '' Cloud " 

Bursts his broken word in sadness ; 

Dearest, though the judging years 

Many bards have put above him; 

Dearest, though some worldly fears 
Chide me when Isay I love him. 

Friend of all the friendless poor. 

Borrowed he for poorer brothers ; 

He who dwelt upon the moor, 

Left the fertile fields to others. 



SHELLEY 77 

Life his paradise and hell, 

He had gifts and curses plenty; 

Stumbled he where others fell, 

Worn-out man at nine and twenty. 

Spirit of immortal youth, 

Chafing at restraint of duty. 
Seeker of the final truth, 

Dear idolator of beauty ! 

Shelley lived and Shelley died ; 

Do not write '' His faults outlive him " ; 
Write " He dreamed but never lied," 

And, if 't please you, '' God forgive him ! " 



LINCOLN LEARNING ARITHMETIC 

T TOW delicately beautiful at night, 

The stars through overarching trees ! 
And lovable the homeward-beckoning light 

When through the opening door the lamp's 
heart flutters in the breeze ! 

How beautiful the beacons when the seas 
With wild huzzas of storm and wave 

Howl boastfully to battling ship her doom 
Of rock and shoal or watery cave 

Where garlanded are seaweeds for her tomb ! 

Have you not sunsets seen that were so rare 
You longed to hymn them to the world ? 
Or moon beheld unutterably fair — 

78 



LINCOLN LEARNING ARITHMETIC 79 

Triumphal lantern of the sky for which all 
clouds were furled ? 

I once a glorious rainbow saw where purled 
The ripples of a village stream 

And in the splendid bow all flags I saw 
As woven into one — - the dream 

Millennial, of Love the bride of Law ! 

Forever beautiful by day or night 

Is fire ! yet grander than the blaze 
Of suns magnificent, O searching Light 

Of Mind in which-the misty ages are as yester- 
days! 

And thus to-night o'er city roofs and ways, 
My roused imagination sees 

No senate hall, no domed palatial toy, 
But cabin of the rough-hewn trees. 

The self-taught college of a prairie boy ! 



8o LINCOLN LEARNING ARITHMETIC 

This log-built university can teach 

A love of righteousness, a kind 
Intolerance, a gracefulness of speech 

And skill to shape a nation to the pattern of a 
mind. 

This teacher-pupil what has he to bind 
His heart to love of truth ? What aid 

To- print his name on Glory's blurless page ? 
Can charcoal and a wooden spade 

Assist to solve the problem of an age? 

I see on Abraham Lincoln's old-young face 

Aglow by sticks of wood afire, 
No signed divine command to free a race 

Or weld a broken nation to a patriot's desire. 

O embers of that Indiana fire ! 
Caught Lincoln's soul from you a spark 

Of some old seer's candle burning low. 



LINCOLN LEARNING ARITHMETIC 8l 

Defiance flickering to the dark ? 

Or heat from Valley Forge's dying glow ? 

There Lincoln learns arithmetic, but who 

Can tell the sums of legioned men 
His word one day shall add to all the true 

Who died that human liberty might dwell on 
earth again! 

And none there is who hath the prophet's ken 
By light and shadow on the floor 

To read that life of smile and gloom, 
Or see a prairie cabin door 

Swing open to a nation's council room ! 



THE DEAD LEADER 

A LTHOUGH the March initial trumpets blew 

As heralding the victor tread of death, 

The people's love still battled for their prince — 

Their thrice-elected chief. And now his flag 

Is down to death's, but not dishonor's depth 

The Beacon city of the Pilgrim clime 

And all the steepled hilltops of the state. 

Light memory fires to him whose record blazed 

Throughout the gloominess of doubt and fear, 

A torch to welcome every honest bark. 

That sought, as once his own frail bark had 

sought. 

The shelter of the Massachusetts shore. 

82 



THE DEAD LEADER 83 

Burn, memory fires, for him ! till by your light, 
The weakest sight may see ! see how he pushed 
The backward-rolling stone of fate far up 
The rugged hill whose summit breezes kiss 
His eyes to sleep. 

No faction set the stroke 
For this brave oar. He heard the beating heart 
Of common weal and to it kept his time, 
Unmindful of the noises on the bank. 

Burn, memory fires, to him who ever kept, 
Amid the clatter of the street, his heart 
Attuned to every breeze that blew from out 
The templed groves of song. And on his brow. 
Where would, in ancient days, have been a crown, 
We might have placed the laurel's fadeless leaf; 



84 THE DEAD LEADER 

For he hath felt, enraptured, sounds that thrill 
A blade, a flower, a poet and a star. 

Burn, memory fires, for him, and in your heat 

Dry all the weepings o'er these crucial days 

Which some would call degenerate. Dispel 

The mists that make the better hour appear 

Immeasurably far, but leave us still 

Heirs to the unbought tear — that mellow fruit 

Of circling zone and season over all 

The globe; the globe that was, itself, a tear 

Dropped from the eye of some overflowing Love. 



JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY 

T IVING, we loved his wildest note, 
As he soared with eagle wing; 

His vision purged of the selfish mote 
That blinds the meaner thing. 

Never so high was his grandest flight 
But his vision swept the plain, 

And his cry came out of the darkest night 
And goaded the dullest brain, 

Causing the indolent lucre-lord 

To shrink anon from the mart ; 

But his bravest voice was a god-like word 
That struck to the people's heart. 



85 



86 JOHN BOYLE o'rEILLY 

Dead ! and far from her whose breast 

Has nursed the brave and strong; 
But braver heart was never pressed 
To Erin's heart in her deep unrest 
Than his — brave child of song. 

• » • • • , . • • ♦ 
O Ship ! that never will return ! 

O bark sped out on the mystic sea ! 
Oft shall we crowd to the harbor piers, 
Straining our eyes as we dry our tears 

To catch a glimpse of a spar from thee ! 

O Flower ! blown from stem and thorn 

To field beyond our human ken ; 
While Right is flower and Wrong is weed, 
Oft shall we seek for the magic seed 
Thy petals never hid from men ! 



THE SAVIOR OF DREYFUS 

A I AHE censor years may pile the dust 

Grave-deep upon your printed page, 
And kind Forgetfulness be just 

To friends' applause and critics' rage. 

Time may not care if prose or rhyme 
You wrought upon the leaves of art; 

Yet never child of dusty Time 

Shall blur the pages of your heart. 

No, never while 'tis Woman's lot, 

With moistened eyes and brain afire. 

To watch from palace, hall or cot, 

For child or sweetheart, spouse or sire. 

87 



88 THE SAVIOR OF DREYFUS 

No, never while the fettered Right 

Can clank a chain to make men start, 

Or Truth, eluding jealous Might, 

Can find a path from heart to heart. 



BALLADS OF BOYHOOD 



AMOS LEE 

A I A HERE must be some alive to-day 

Who remember Amos Lee ; 
Some who went to school with Amos, 

Some who went to school with me. 
We called him " Stretcher " Amos, 

For Amos was so tall. 
You could stand upon his shoulders. 

When he stood upon the wall. 
And pick the blushing apples 

From Abner Goodwin's tree. 
On the way to school with Amos, 

On the way to school with me. 

It may be some who read these lines 

Can recollect aright 
91 



92 AMOS LEE 

How we saw the Morris Brothers 

Give a show in town one night : 
We peeked in through the window 

And saved our fifteen cents, 
For we stood on " Stretcher's " shoulders, 

" Stretcher'" standing on the fence. 
And never Henry Irving 

Was half the sight to see, 
That you saw that night with Amos, 

That you saw that night with me. 

How often in my boyhood life — 

That anarchistic time 
When the current of my feelings 

Overflowed the banks of rhyme — 
I thought that God made Amos 

To help the smaller boys 



AMOS LEE 93 

To a communistic portion 

Of the world's patrician toys. 

But neighbors who had orchards 
Protested they could see 

A Satanic streak in Amos, 
A Satanic streak in me. 

And though they did predict for us 

Long repining in a cell, 
Amos Lee is now a teacher 

And the scholars love him well. 
For still his high ambition 

Is to help aspiring youth, 
Not to apples, but to knowledge 

From the lofty tree of truth. 
And though no shining halo. 

Around his brow may be, 
There's a mighty change in Amos 

Since he went to school with me. 



THE BOYS OF DEWDALE 

pERHAPS the boys of Dewdale, 
My native place, were rough; 
I know some hostile critics 

Insisted they were tough. 
That censure, was, I think, unfair, 

Yes, very far from truth, 
And did a grave injustice 

To the cronies of my youth; — 
Companions o'er whose councils 

No bully could be king ; 
The boys were rough in Dewdale, 

But they loved the flowers of spring. 

No dainty botanizers 

Along a river's brim, 
94 



THE BOYS OF DEWDALE 95 

The boys who Hved in Dewdale 

Could fight and skate and swim. 
Some few, alas ! would say bad words, 

When vexed by boyish broils. 
Yet risk their lives for lilies 

In a mass of snaky coils. 
Their fairy queen was Nature, 

And manly pluck their king ; 
The boys were rough in Dewdale, 

But they loved the flowers of spring. 

A hero he in Dewdale, 

Who, watching for the day, 
Brought home the first fair flower 

Benignly kissed by May. 
O Joel Chase, I'd like to know. 

If memory brings to you 



96 THE BOYS OF DEWDALE 

One day we climbed the ledges, 
Where the honeysuckles grew. 

And how Zeb Sawin's treble 
Made hill and valley ring ! 

The roughest boy in Dewdale, 

But he loved the flowers of spring. 

As homeward with the flowers 

We trudged the village street, 
The red-cheeked girls of Dewdale 

Came forth their knights to meet. 
And Zeb, he said, his flowers all 

He'd give Luetta Bliss, 
Provided fair Luetta, 

In return, would give a kiss. 
At Zeb's audacious ofifer. 

We gave our jeers full swing; 
For Zeb he was no beauty. 

But he loved the flowers of spring. 



(( 



THE BOYS OF DEWDALE 97 

A timid flower of Dewdale, 

Luetta hung her head, 
RepHed, " I'll ask my mother," 

And blushed an apple red. 
Unthinking, heartless lad I was, 

I laughed in Sawin's face. 
Which made Zeb so indignant, 

That he chased me from the place. 
I think, if Zeb had caught me, 
. I ne'er had lived to sing, 
The boys were rough in Dewdale, 

But they loved the flowers of spring." 

O blushing buds of Dewdale, 

Soon after, Dewdale way 
Came Death to gather flowers 

To fill his big bouquet ! 



98 THE BOYS OF DEWDALE 

And Doctor Cleland's lanterned chaise 

Was going day and night 
To save the Dewdale blossoms 

From the Winter's chilling blight. 
'Round boyish hearts these blossoms 

On tendrils seemed to cling; 
The boys were rough in Dewdale, 

But they loved the flowers of spring. 

O modest bud, Luetta! 

I think Zeb played a part 
Not one whit less important 

Than Doctor Cleland's art. 
For when your wearied mother slept 

Her meager hour or more, 
If Death came near your cottage, 

Zeb was hanging round the door. 



THE BOYS OF DEWDALE ^ 99 

No wonder, fair Luetta, 

You took our Zeb for king ; 
Rough boys make tender husbands, 

If they love the flowers of spring. 



DAYS GONE BY 

^^TpHROUGH childhood's swiftest years 
We plucked the wayside flowers, 
Shook from the grass Night's tears 
In morning hours. 

Along the river's brim 

We chased the butterfly, 
Or watched the minnows swim 

In days gone by. 

And hand in hand to school 

We walked with book and slate; 

Too oft forgot the rule, 
And came too late. 

lOO 



DAYS GONE BY 101 



And when we first met Love 
And listened to his sigh, 

We kissed the web he wove 
In days gone by. 

Whatever one saw or felt, 
The other felt or knew ; 

To me your priest you knelt. 
And I to you. 

And oh, how sweet to turn 
And stand as you and I 

Now stand, and silent yearn 
For days gone by! 

How sweet to clasp the hands 
Which waves have kept apart. 

And know each understands 
The other's heart ! 



I02 DAYS GONE BY 

But oh, that o'er Life's sea, 
Like wild bird I might fly. 

And reach the shores with thee 
Of days gone by! 



THE BIG, OLD-FASHIONED CENT 

T 'D like to hold a hoard of gold 

Or bonds that could not shrink; 
I'd prize a block of copper stock 

Or sundry shares in zinc. 
But I admit, no lucky hit 

Could give the sweet content 
And the joy assured that a boy procured 

For a big, old-fashioned cent. 

Fair sums I've paid for booklets made 

Of satin, richly bound. 
And tomes of weight a higher rate 

Have cost me by the pound. 

For dainty fare and bonbons rare, 

Much money have I spent, 
103 



104 THE BIG, OLD-FASHIONED CENT 

But they all are naught to the joy I bought 
For a big, old-fashioned cent. 

O cherished spot, and unforgot, 

Where stood Len Shattuck's store! 
O smell of squill, clove, herb and pill. 

Dry-goods and hellebore! 
Beyond the years a form appears 

Above a counter, bent. 
And a kindly face as I tap the case 

With a big, old-fashioned cent. 

Yet near or far, Joy's best goods are 
With threads of cotton crossed; 

And O the pain to heart and brain. 
Whene'er a coin I lost! 

With v^ounded pride and grief beside, 
I home to mother went, 



THE BIG, OLD-FASHIONED CENT I05 

To receive her kiss and the added bliss 
Of a big, old-fashioned cent. 

When Death comes on, when power is gone 

To draw my lyric bow; 
And through the caves of gloom, the waves 

Of light no longer flow. 
Without a tear, approach my bier, 

Repress all praise well meant. 
And breathe no sighs, but close my eyes 

With the big, old-fashioned cent. 



FELLOWSHIP SONGS 



FELLOWSHIP 

TO GENERAL TAYLOR 

T^OUR out the wine that never grew 

In bonds of grape or grain, 
And I will drink deep draughts with you 

Till all the planets wane : 
The priceless wine of fellowship, 

Unlisted in the mart, 
That keeps your name upon my lip, 

And image in my heart. 

Drink of the magic wine, 

Goblet or flagon or stein ; 

Then fight for your friend till the buffets 

and blows 

Are welcome as winds with petals of rose ; 

And you stand like a man, facing death 

in your path ! 
109 



no FELLOWSHIP 

True men were they who sowed the seed, 

And watered vine and shoot; 
Who bowed to earth and wrenched the weed 

That threatened sap and root. 
They guarded well the bloom and leaf, 

They baffled frost and blight; 
With song they gathered fruit and sheaf — 

We drink the wine to-night. 

Drink of the magic wine. 

Goblet or flagon or stein; 

Then cherish your dream till the noise of 

the street 
Is rustle of corn and ripple of wheat ; 
And the bubbles of wine hold the stars 

in your glass! 



FELLOWSHIP III 

Pour out the throbbing wine to greet 

Our brother, friend and guest! 
A truer heart than his ne'er beat 

Within a human breast. 
How swift our flagging blood leaps up 

Beneath his eye's clear light, 
To make our hearts one loving cup 

To drink his health to-night! 

Drink of the magic wine, 

Goblet or flagon or stein ; 

Then fall to your work till your labors are 

joys 
As jocund as games or gambols of boys; 
For you know in your heart there's a 

man at your back ! 



112 FELLOWSHIP 

Pour out the wine as sail we on 

Before the driving breeze, 
As sailed the men already gone 

Across the farthest seas : 
The magic wine of memory 

That turns the gloom to light, 
And leaves our absent brothers free 

To drink with us to-night. 

Drink of the magic wine, 
Goblet or flagon or stein; 
Then sail far away till the walls of the 

world 
Are wafted aside and the planets are 

furled ; 
And you stand face to face with your 

Dream at the last ! 



A. A. F. 

A I AIME who always get his pay — 

Time the nimble, Time the thrifty 
Time brings in his bill to-day; 
A. A. F. he owes him fifty. 

Even so, the bill we'll take, 
And with Father Time to settle. 

Give such coin as hearts can make — 
Golden Friendship's precious metal. 

Bring a bill for fifty more, 

Father Time, and we'll O. K. it ; 

And besides we'll hand you o'er 

Orders on our hearts to pay it. 
113 



TO THE GLOBE MAN 

TTTHEN first I went to work for you in 

eighteen-eighty-four, 

I used to climb three flights of stairs to reach the 

sanctum floor; 

And, breathless with excitement, I used to sit me 

down 

And write a thrilling article that should have 

" scooped " the town. 

But the grim blue-pencil sages 

Made incisions in my pages, 

And cut the graceful mazes 

Of my French and Latin phrases 

And English that Macaulay wouldn't hesitate to 

sign; 

114 



TO THE GLOBE MAN IIS 

Till instead of high position, 
And leading each edition, 
My article was published as a little local line! 
Those grim blue-pencil villains! how I thirsted for 

their gore, 
When first I went to work for you in eighteen- 
eighty-f our ! 

When first I went to work for you in eighteen- 

eighty-four, 
How many greetings then I heard that now are 

heard no more 
From men who thought and toiled for you through 

every doubt and fear 
And helped to make your countenance grow brighter 

every year; 
Helped to give your eye the twinkle 
That obliterates the wrinkle; 



Il6 TO THE GLOBE MAN 

Helped to keep you cool and steady, 
With a brain that's ever ready 
To see the spot of greensward in the driest sands 
of life, 
And to look for joy, not sorrow, 
And believe one glad to-morrow 
Is certainly worth millions of yesterdays of strife. 
O such you were at twelve years old, and grown so 

more and more, 
Since first I went to work for you in eighteen-eighty- 
four. 

When first I went to work for you in eighteen- 

eighty-four. 
Your years were just a dozen and a smaller suit you 

wore ; 
But man and clothes kept moving, till enormous 

grown your girth, 



TO THE GLOBE MAN Il7 

At twenty-five you stand among the leaders of the 
earth ; 
Stand among the leaders 
Of the myriads of readers, 
And first in circulation 
In this section of the nation — • 
The marvel of New England and the captain of 
her press. 
You're a peach, and women bless you, 
A plum, and tots caress you. 
And celebrate your wedding to the goddess of 
Success! 
To honor, then, your wedding day, this lyric draught 

I pour — 
So glad I went to work for you in eighteen-eighty- 
four. 



C. H. T., Jr. 

T TPON the Globe Man's Christmas tree 

The Jester hangs a verse for thee — > 

Fantastic wreath of twig and brier 

Consign it to thy yule-log fire. 

And, while the etching flashes write 

Red poems in the book of Night, 

And chill December's breezes play 

On chimney pipe a song or lay 

Of summer joys on lake or bay. 

Forget the Jester's acrid rhymes, 

As through the poet's jangled chimes, 

'Mid music of the Christmas glee. 

You hear your friends speak thus of thee : 

ii8 



C. H. T., JR. 119 

" His tongue is sharp, 

His arm is strong, 
His brain too cool 

To warm a wrong; 
And he whose glance can quickly see 
A wrong- font quad or damaged ' e,' 
Who can free advertising spy 
If hidden in a line of pi, 
Is always first with word of cheer 
To wipe from Sorrow's eye a tear, 
Is always first to lend a h^nd 
To lift a brother bruised or banned," 



A SONG FOR CHRISTMAS 

TO GENERAL TAYLOR 

in^ROM Summer thoughts in winter time, 
Enwound with fadeless faith in thee, 
I weave this Httle wreath of rhyme 
To hang upon thy Christmas tree ; 

A tree whose boughs are never bare 

Through all the wintry snows and rains, 
Whose sap leaps upward to the air 

In streams forever through its veins; 

A tree dense-laden with the fruit 

That follows watching, day and night. 

Of blossom in the tender shoot 

Safe-guarded from the frost and blight ; 

120 



A SONG FOR CHRISTMAS 121 

A tree whose sturdy trunk and bough 
No breeze unfriendly ever bends ; 

Yet all its limbs are bending now 
Beneath best wishes of thy friends ; 

In wildest storm it never veers, 

Nor at the wrenching whirlwind starts ; 

Because 'tis seasoned by the years, 
And all its roots are in our hearts. 



A MAN TO A WOMAN 



A MAN TO A WOMAN 

TF you should love me, 
I could bear 

All kinds of care, 

Could suffer pain, 

Endure disdain, 

And ne'er complain 
Of scorn from those above me,- 
If you should love me. 

If you should love me, 
It would teach 
Me gentler speech, 
Soft tones instead of gruff, 
Smooth ways for rough — 
While grace enough 

125 



126 A MAN TO A WOMAN 

To touch your hand would glove me,- 
If you should love me. 

If you should love me, 
I should know 
The use of woe, 
And why through fears 
And clouds and tears 
Alone, appears 

All light that shines above me, — 

If you should love me. 



JE T'AIME 

^^T LOVE thee! '' that was all he said. 
Was EngHsh, then, to blame 
That she should, blushing, hang her head. 
And answer him, " Je t'aime " ? 



a 



Of English speech, a bright red rose," 
He said, ^^ I give to thee ; • 

Thy foreign lily's languid prose 
Lacks warmth, it seems to me." 

Thy native rose is touched with frost," 

She answered, with a sigh ; 

In English speech the * love ' is lost 

Between the ' thee ' and * I.' 
127 



128 JE t'aIME 

^' In lovers' language, as 'tis taught 

Upon the other side, 
We never let a v^ord or thought 

The ' I ' from ^ thee ' divide. 



<< ( 



I thee/ we say; we bring them close, 
Then follows ^ love ' aflame ; 

1/ barred from ' thee ' would be morose, 
And so I say, ' Je t'aime/ '' 



TO 

/^ COME what may, 
By night or day, 

Begin or end 
The roughest way, 

I am your friend. 
As I am thine, 
O be thou mine ! 
And let us keep 
From thorny steep 

And choose the lanes 
That lead to light 
Away from night 

And poppy pains — 

The leafy aisles 

And walks where smiles 
129 



130 TO 

The violet 

Through petals wet 

Not with tears of vain regret 

But with the dew 

That thrills it through 

With life anew! 

be to me the woodland flower 
With dewy gem 

That, every hour, 

Though on its stem 
In woods afar, 

1 see it shine for me a star 

By night 

Or beacon bright 
Beyond the bay — 
A sun by day ! 



TO 131 



Begin or end 
The darkest way, 

It is my friend, 
As I am thine. 
O be thou mine ! 



THE GIRL WHO WAITS ON ME 

OjHE comes through the swinging" door, 

And her supple arms are filled 
From the landlord's choicest store 

Of juicy meats and sweets. See how her 
feet are skilled 
To tread without misstep, the crowded floor! 

She makes me think that thus Pomona, ere 
She yielded to her lover's fervid vows, — 

To rash Vertumnus crazed with frigid fare, — 
Appeared between the orchard's parted 
boughs. 

She comes with a brimming glass 

And I wish it might inclose 
Within its draught, a drop, alas ! 

Of crimson youth that wells and warms and 

overflows 

Those cheeks not damask Hebe's could surpass ! 

132 



THE GIRL WHO WAITS ON ME 133 

Ah, then I'd drink as from a magic flask 
Till Age should flee before the ruby flush, 

As from Pomona's wooer fell the mask 
And all the garden ripened at her blush I 

She comes, and an old man's eye, 

Like the lens of Phoebus' art, 
Feels a picture drawing nigh, 

Until Apollo's golden pencil on his heart 
Has sketched her in the framework of a sigh. 

Dear girl, for him by whom these rhymes are 
strung, 
Bring with your food and drink at least a 
sup 
Of Hebe's luscious wine that keeps us young ; 
But stumble not, like her, and break the cup ! 



THE BEST LOVED 

T'VE squandered golden youth on worthless 
wares, 
And favors lost for want of truckling words; 
IVe bartered solid joys for haunting cares; 

For croaking rhymes exchanged the song of 
birds. 

And many ships IVe seen put out to sea, 

Whose freight was lavish Love's rich mer- 
chandise. 

Those ships have ne'er sailed home again to me, 
Their cargoes now of ruthless Time the prize. 

Yet could I all my squandered days recall. 

Regain each joy, each hope that once were mine, 

For thy dear love I'd gladly give them all; 

Poor fee were life itself for love like thine! 

134 



THE TWO SHIPS 

/^^\ the old ship has sailed, love, 

That brought us pain and pleas- 
ure ; 
O, the old ship has sailed, love, 

That brought us tears and treasure ; 
She sailed away last night, love, 

Some other port to win ; 
O, the old ship has sailed, love, 
But a new ship 's in. 

O, the old ship has sailed, love. 

With wintry winds to waft her; 

She has sailed away forever 

With freight of grief and laughter. 
135 



136 THE TWO SHIPS 

O, closer, love, and fonder ! 

Don't mind what might have been ; 
O, the old ship has sailed, love, 

But a new ship 's in. 

O, the old ship has sailed, love, 

I saw her making ready. 
And heard the midnight chanty song 

In solemn tones and steady. 
Through tears I saw her leaving 

With many friends and kin; 
O, the old ship has sailed, love, 

But a new ship 's in. 

O, the old ship has sailed, love. 
And left us still together. 

To wait along the water front 
With hearts of sunny weather ; 



THE TWO SHIPS 137 

To wait along the water front, 

A calm amid the din; 
O, the old ship has sailed, love. 

But a new ship 's in. 

O, a new ship is in, love, 

I saw her when she glided 
In safety to her landing. 

By Perfect Pilot guided. 
Look forward, love, and hopeful. 

Don't mind what might have been. 
O, the old ship has sailed, love, 

But a new ship 's in. 



COLLEGE VERSES AND OTHER VERSES 



OUR MOTHER^S HOUSE 

ly /TAST and wheel are at her door, 

Short her paths to rail or street, 
Traffic's breakers 'round her roar, 
Dust of tombs is at her feet. 

Vistaed elm and colonnade, 
Lawn or hilltop, grove or grot, 

Stream that glides through golden glade. 
Sylvan arbor, she hath not. 

Yet, while crowds may pass her by, 

Tagging fame or chasing gold, 

From her windows you and I 

True Arcadian lands behold. 
141 



142 OUR MOTHERS HOUSE 

Underneath our mother's eaves, 
Care is brief and joy is long; 

In her little lane of leaves 
Builded I my nest of song. 

Through her portal floats a breeze 

Sweet with scent of fruits and flowers 

Apples of Hesperides, 

Bud and bloom of Tempe bowers. 

On her altars, day and night. 
Kindles she her high desires, 

Giving all her sons a light 
Sacred as her vestal fires. 

Giving all the gift to find 

Youth and beauty, truth and art, 

In the mirrors of the mind, 
In the highways of the heart. 



OUR mother's house 143 

Vistaed elm or colonnade, 

Lawn or valley, grove or grot, 
Stream that glides through golden glade. 

Sylvan arbor, she hath not. 

Yet, if knolls or woodland dells 
Should entice her from the sea, 

Wheresoe'er my mother dwells 
Is my mother's house to me. 



THE CLOSED BOOK 

TTE loved the bards of tuneful lays, 

And often with some magic rhyme 
Brought back to me the olden time 
With all its wealth of golden days. 

With Byron we beheld the blue 
And deep, dark ocean onward roll ; 
And all the colors of the soul, 

In Shakespeare's mirror came to view. 

Along the blooming banks of Ayr 

Or by the braes of bonny Doon, 

We heard the laverock's merry tune 

Or hoofs of Tam O'Shanter's mare. 

144 



(C 



THE CLOSED BOOK 145 

Through Erin's emerald fields to lure 
The fairies from the haunted glen, 
We sported with the maids and men 

Whose loves were sung by Thomas Moore. 

But fonder still each native scene! 

And home seemed never half so sweet 

As when I heard his lips repeat 
Maud Muller " or " Evangeline." 

But what is this? He's closed the book, 
And while sleep settles on his eyes, 
The echoes of his voice arise, 

Like murmurings of a distant brook. 



THE CHRISTMAS TREE 

TN many lands, by many seas, 

To-day they are planting Christmas trees. 
Skies be dull, or skies be fair, 
Fields, white or green, they do not care. 
To-day they are planting everywhere. 
In town and country, hall and cot, 
On upland farm and corner lot, 
Grandsire, maid and tow-haired tot 
Plant with laughter, song and play, 
The tree whose fruit is ripe in a day. 
Oh, of all the fruit in the world, to me 
There is none like the fruit of the Christmas 

tree! 

146 



THE CHRISTMAS TREE 147 

Its leaves are green as cress that grows 
In beds where the purling brooklet flows; 
Its buds are silver, pink, or white 
As apple blooms or snows at night, 
Or glinting stars in the frost-moon's light. 
Its blossoms are golden-hues and gleam 
Like lights reflected in a stream, 
Or golden treasure in a dream; 
Its fruit is of every tint and shape, 
Shaming the orange and plum and grape. 
Oh, of all the fruit in the world, to me 
There is none like the fruit of the Christmas 
tree ! 

If you should seek for seed or shoot 
From which to grow this wondrous fruit, 
The field and wood you'll search in vain, 
Nor find them on the hill or plain, 



148 THE CHRISTMAS TREE 

On river path or ocean lane, 
By any map or guide or chart, 
In country store or city mart, — 
You'll find them only in your heart ; 
For every heart has seed or shoot 
From which to grow this wondrous fruit ; 
Oh, of all the fruit in the world, to me 
There is none like the fruit of the Christmas 
tree! 



A LIFE'S STORY 

A I A WO together and only two — 

One a soldier and one a maid ; 
Every sky is heavenly blue, 

And all the dim forebodings fade. 

Two together and only two — 
One a husband and one a wife, 

Ready to walk the wide world through, 
Heart and hand on the road of life. 

Two together and only two — 

Fronting Fortune and braving fears - 

Two together and only two 

Above two little graves, in tears. 
149 



150 A LIFE S STORY 

Two together and only two — 

He a nation's chosen chief, 
She a wife to follow through 

The massive gates that lead to grief. 

Two together and only two — 

One to watch, with all love's wealth, 

One to walk 'mid wilds of rue 

To seek the pleasant paths of health. 

Two together and only two — 
Cannons boom and cities cheer, 

Skies are bright and friends are true ; 
Who shall say that Death is near? 

Two together and only two — 
Joy seems sure forever more. 

Yet the hand that millions drew 

Of hearts, has opened Death's dark door. 



A life's story 151 

Two together and only two — 
While amid his own he stands, 

Death now breaks the circle through 

And grasps him with his vise-like hands. 

Two together and only two — 

Never death such loving parts, 
Loyal wife and husband true. 

For Love hath wed your hands and hearts. 

Two together and only two — 
Peoples pray that you may meet 

Where the dark skies change to blue, 
And all that's bitter turns to sweet. 



I LOVE 

T LOVE the earth, I love the sky, 
I love to live, I hate to die; 
I also love the kind and true 
Nor slight the old friend for the new; 
To me such friendship has no end — 
When once a friend, always a friend. 

I love the glorious summer morn, 

I love the fields of waving corn ; 

And peace and love my bosom hold. 

When autumn turns the green to gold. 

In every frozen lake and rill 

A loveliness is dwelling still. 

I look below, around, above, 

And love that God whose smile is love. 

152 



A BIRTHDAY 



TO NIXON WATERMAN 



\ H, well that in a wintry hour 

The heart can sing a summer 
rhyme ! 
And well that after vine and flower 
Should come this soul of summer clime, 

Whose laughter and whose songs arise 
Where April days and March winds part ; 

The mirrored May is in his eyes 
And June forever in his heart 



153 



THE OLD CONDUCTOR AND THE NEW 

/^>( OOD-NIGHT, Old Year ! You leave us here ? 
Old Year, I'll ne'er forget your number! 
The route we took, with curve and crook 
And jolting, left small time for slumber; 
Left small time for jests and tales — 
Once we almost quit the rails 
Without a word of warning. 
Good-night, Old Year! Your trip ends here. 
To you, New Year, good morning! 

The great clocks chime! On schedule time 

YouVe reached, Old Year, your destination. 

How useless now my furrowed brow, 

My f retfulness and irritation ! — 

154 



THE OLD CONDUCTOR AND THE NEW 155 

As if Old Time could not arrange 
Time-table subject to no change! 

Away with sigh and scorning! 
Good-night, Old Year! You leave us here. 

To you, New Year, good morning! 

Steam, gong and bell, all chant farewell ! 

The old conductor now is leaving. 
Some, made he glad, but others sad; 
Yet all for loss of him are grieving, — 
Grieving for the pleasures past, — 
And for dreams that did not last, 
And hopes our world adorning. 
Good-night, Old Year! You leave us here. 
To you. New Year, good morning! 

O dreams adored ! — with " All aboard ! " 
The new conductor stops my musing. 



156 THE OLD CONDUCTOR AND THE NEW 

The engine breathes, its spiral wreaths 
Of vapor with the night-clouds fusing. 
So, melt away each vain regret ! 
I know. Old Friend, I'll conquer yet, 
If I but heed your warning. 
Good-night, Old Year ! You leave us here. 
To you. New Year, good morning! 



A PIECE OF LACE MADE BY HELEN 

▼ S it the mimic grill-work of the frost, 

■*' In play designed to bar the sun and moon, 

But presently to vanish in a swoon? 
Or can it be a flake of foam embossed 
By ocean beating on the rocks, and tossed 

In sport ashore? Perchance some rare shal- 
loon 

Spun by the mermaids, or a dreamland boon 
Which may be taken only to be lost. 

Yet no ; this weave, eluding poet's skill. 

This fleece more prized than that by Jason 

sought. 

True counterpart of lattice petal-vined. 

Was but a shred of cotton-flower, until 

That shred the shuttle of her fingers caught 

And patterned it to beauty of her mind. 
157 



THE GOLDEN ROSE 

T^ ED rose, white rose, violet blue, 

Or deepest pink that blows, 
You are not the flower of fairest hue, 
You are not the Golden Rose! 

Alas! our Rose is in a tower, 
And a dragon guards the keep. 

His name is Pain and from our flower. 
He tries to ward off sleep. 

He frightens Sleep with blade and rack, 

With threat of bruise and maim; 

And when the dreamful night is black, 

He puffs out smoke and flame. 

158 



THE GOLDEN ROSE 159 

High revels often Pain doth keep, 

And smacks his cruel lips ; 
Then in his dish our faithful Sleep 

A leaf of poppy slips. 

Soon Poppy Leaf the dragon numbs, 

And while he's in a doze, 
Then Sleep, the ever faithful, comes 

To lovely Golden Rose. 

But there are times Sleep can't get in 

To Golden Rose's bower; 
And then the dragon, Pain, doth grin 

At our dear golden-flower. 

But Love is standing by her bed ; 

He stands there night and day; 
He strokes our Golden Rose's head, 

And kisses tears away. 



l60 THE GOLDEN ROSE 

For Pain with cruel whip and knout, 
In tower that meets the stars, 

Can never, never keep Love out. 
However strong the bars. 

Remain, O Love, her bed beside. 

Till every petal vein 
Shall feel again the healthful tide. 

As flowers feel the rain. 

Then lead her forth, with pipe and flute, 
To song of brook and birds ; 

To madrigal of lip and lute. 
And heart-song without words. 

Red rose, white rose, violet blue. 
Or deepest pink that blows, 

You are not the flower of fairest hue, 
You are not the Golden Rose! 



NOVA ATALANTA VINDEX 

T AM not a living picture 

Of a classical athlete, 

I have never made a touchdown nor a goal. 
My sporting blood, believe me. 
Would not burn at fever heat, 

If I chanced to put a golf ball in a hole. 

Yet whene'er I read the story 
Of that foot race long ago, 

Which Hippomenes from Atalanta won. 
And realize the lady 
Did not get a decent show, 

Then I feel like making trouble with a gun. 

Atalanta being swifter. 

Could have left the man with ease 

A parasang or two behind her back; 
i6i 



l62 NOVA ATALANTA VINDEX 

But whene'er she tried to distance 
The sly Hippomenes, 

He would drop a golden apple on the track. 

As the maiden, thus deluded, 
By a most unmanly trap, 

Paused and stooped to gather up the golden 
fruit, 
Hippomenes sped forward, 
Won the race by half a lap, 

Won the maiden and the gate receipts — the 
brute! 

Such a very rank decision 
All true sporting men deplore ; 

But old Time, best referee, may set it 
straight, 



NOVA ATALANTA VINDEX 163 

When teams of college maidens 
Pay the Atalanta score, 

And, moreover, wipe some others off the 
slate. 

How I'd like to see the settling 
Of that very old account! 

See fair Wellesley make the Crimson heroes 
pale ; 
See Smith get square with Princeton 
For a very large amount. 

And see Vassar wipe a stadium with Yale! 

But, suppose those dear young ladies 
Played a Boston College team, 

Then what feelings do you think I'd enter- 
tain? 
Would not rude poetic justice 
Then become a fleeting dream? 



164 NOVA ATALANTA VINDEX 

Is there any living man could stand the 
strain ? 

Would not flesh and blood be rebel, 
Also chivalry a myth, 

If you saw your halfback battered by a girl? 
No man could keep from yelling, 
" You have lost your side-combs, Smith ! '' 

Or, " vSay, Wellesley ! say ! your hair is out 
of curl!" 

Yes, 'twould be the same old story 
Of the Grecian maiden's fate; 

Again would Atalanta have to yield. 
If she did not lose by trying 
To keep her hat on straight. 

Then we'd drop a box of candy on the field ! 



BOSTON COLLEGE 

T BRING the old days back — a crucial test — 
And twine with them the love thou didst 
bestow 

On one whose battle with a stubborn foe, 
The world, has not dethroned thee from his breast. 
Queen school to me ! not worldly scorn nor jest 

Shall ever exile thee. In weal or woe 

Of thee I sing — yet in an overflow 
Of words is lost thy song of all songs best; 

A song which heard in arid city street 
Should make the slave of dollars pause to hear 

The tongues of trees, the brooks with prattle 
sweet, 
And drink the air of fields. For doubt and fear 

Like plumy dreams in troubled sleep retreat, 
When sounds thy morning welcome, trumpet-clear. 

165 



JAN 14 130S 



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